The Dictionary of Lost Words(57)

My hand went to my belly, still hidden, and I blushed scarlet. Beth made no effort to calm my fears.

‘Don’t tease her, Beth,’ said Ditte.

‘But it’s so easy,’ she said, smiling. ‘You have a reputation, Esme, as a natural scholar. According to Dr Murray you are the equal of any Oxford graduate. He is particularly fond of telling the story of you camping all day beneath the sorting table. He claims his lenience has allowed the development of a particular affinity for words.’

Horror turned to gratitude, and the heat stayed in my face.

‘He would not approve of me telling you this, of course,’ said Beth. ‘Praise dulls the intellect, in his opinion.’

There was a knock at the door.

‘Always on time,’ Beth said to Ditte. Then she turned to me. ‘Just keep your hand from hovering above your belly and no one will notice a thing.’

Three gentlemen. All scholars, all residing in Somerset when they weren’t expected to teach. Professor Leyton Chisholm was an Historian at the University of Wales and a contemporary of the sisters. He was so comfortable in their company that he helped himself to cake without it being offered and sat unasked in the most comfortable chair. Mr Philip Brooks was also a friend, but not old enough to take such liberties. He had to stoop to avoid hitting his head on the doorway, and Beth made a game of standing on tip-toe to kiss him on the cheek. Mr Brooks taught geology at University College, Bristol, as did Mr Shaw-Smith, the youngest of the three. He was a stranger to the sisters but had come along at the insistence of Mr Brooks. His youthful face was eager but could not yet support a beard. He stumbled through the introductions.

‘In time you will get used to us, Mr Shaw-Smith,’ said Beth, and I wondered if she was referring to us three, or to the whole of womankind.

When the men were seated, Ditte and I arranged ourselves at either end of the settee. Beth poured the tea and nodded for me to pass the cake. When everyone was served and compliments about the Madeira had been given, I sat back and waited for Beth to ask some provocative question that would give the men their cue. I expected gentlemen’s anecdotes and hubris, intellectual disagreements argued on ever-diminishing points of logic. I expected the occasional entreaty for an opinion (out of courtesy), and I was already anticipating my disappointment at the automatic taming of language that would be observed due to the fact we three wore skirts.

But that was not how the afternoon proceeded. These gentlemen had come to listen, to test their ideas and be persuaded otherwise – not by each other, but by the sisters. The men’s gaze fell comfortably on Beth, following her as she moved to turn on a lamp, watching her hands as she checked the level in the teapot and poured them each another cup. When she spoke, they leaned in, asked her to clarify, took it in turns to play with her ideas and combine them with their own. They argued with her, inviting her to defend her position. She often smiled before delivering a withering rebuke for sloppy reasoning. If they came around to her way of thinking, which they often did, it was never to be polite. I was astonished.

Ditte spoke far less, but she frequently bent towards Professor Chisholm to quietly discuss some point the younger men were debating with Beth. When Ditte was asked for her opinion, the company would fall silent. On points of history, she was clearly the authority, and her words were treated with a respect I had only ever seen given to Dr Murray.

‘It is that exact question that Edith intends to explore in the revision of her History,’ said Beth at one point. ‘Which is why we have invited Esme to stay for a while. She is to be Edith’s research assistant.’

‘Isn’t that your job, Beth?’ said Professor Chisholm.

‘Usually, yes, but as you know I have a writing project of my own.’ She gave him a cheeky smile.

‘And what would that be, Miss Thompson?’ said Mr Shaw-Smith.

Beth turned her whole body towards the question and paused before speaking.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘It’s scandalous, really. I’ve been writing a novel, of the very worst kind, and by some miracle it’s going to be published.’

I noticed a smile flit across Ditte’s face as she reached for another slice of Madeira.

‘What is it called?’ he asked

‘A Dragoon’s Wife,’ Beth said with pride. ‘It’s set in the seventeenth century, and my task over the next few months is to add a little more steam to the narrative.’

‘Steam?’

‘Yes, steam, Mr Shaw-Smith. And I can’t tell you how much fun I’m having.’

The young man finally understood and took refuge in his teacup. I reached into my pocket to feel the stub of a pencil and the edge of a slip.

‘Gestures are important, of course,’ Beth continued. ‘He might offer his hand; she might take it. But arousal is a bodily function, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Shaw-Smith?’

He was speechless.

‘Of course, you do,’ she said. ‘If you want a bit of steam in a novel, the skin must flush and the pulse must race – for characters, and for readers, in my opinion.’

‘You’re saying that desire should be exposed,’ said Mr Brooks.

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘More tea, anyone?’

I excused myself and the men all stood. Mr Shaw-Smith seemed grateful for the disturbance. I wanted to write down Beth’s words before the exact quotation faded.